Holiday. Home. Happiness.

Ohkay I am thrilled – I have watched it 6 times back to back and I cannot wait for May 30th – Sex and the City, the movie’s official trailer is finally out and I am so excited! The Body Shop near my house has a 40% off and I am finally going to be able to afford something there. I am such a chick sometimes!

But! But!! But!!!! - Most importantly, my people and the people of the world – yes yes its official (no, I am not getting married) – I am indeed coming to Delhi for a week long trip. The lord has finally listened to my prayers and I have got a 2 week holiday – where I intend to indulge in utter laziness, eat good food, go shopping, get a haircut, catch up with all my friends, go to Big Chill, and Janpath (oh my lack-of-footwear angst shall finally be over), and then a week in the lap of luxury in Simla – sleep, eat, walk in the woods, watch films, get a pedicure, lounge on the mall, take photos, visit my school – life shall, albeit for 2 weeks, be miraculously turned into my little haven.

So this plan was actually to happen in March but the evil three letters – KRA (Key Result Areas) held me back… and then the tedious dirty process got over and I managed to get a great rating (god only knows how), and now I take off to the better parts of India (yes, I mean North India) while my big fat bonus and the great year end hike gets deposited in my currently sparse bank account. Life is looking up. Now only if my parents weren’t being such a pain in the ear! But I plan to buy ear plugs from Heera Panna tomorrow – I really do!

I had the strangest nightmare the other night – I killed 2 people and then I was petrified that someone may find out so I hid them and then kept feeling guilty and headed to Marks and Spencer to shop (incidentally they were on sale in that sequence and I do think this is a result of ogling at the Body Shop board daily when I return from office!). Anyway, it was creepy and I woke up and messaged Pix who assured me that it was nothing really and that I am Uma Thurman! Uma Thurman it is then – I’d rather that than get Freud to find inklings of a serial killer in me!

Holi was nothing major. Just some dry pink and green gulal. And some red too. How can there not be red! Excellent food but no thandai, no bhaang, no nothing – kaise hai yeh log – see that’s why I miss North India – do you see why now? Do you? Do you?? And do you see why the thought of returning to my familiar pretty Dilli and Simla makes me grin like a fool all day?

Well, suddenly office seems bearable and colleagues seem okay, suddenly I am looking at Mumbai not-so-severely and I am trying to distract myself with the personal complications at hand. I think this is what happens when your office lets you free or atleast temporarily.

Come 11th and I am in apna Dilli for a good gorgeous week – this is a time to celebrate and to take out my little black organiser – so tell me people, for what day should I book you? Dinner? Lunch? A stroll? – tell me peeeeepal…. I am coming home to you!!

To pee or not to pee

I am sitting at my desk at work. Colleague turns around to me.

C: Let’s go
Me: hmm…okay
C: Take your swipe card
Me: Ok let’s go

Or, picture this:

2 ladies at a club
Lady 1: I am going to the loo
L 2: wait, I am coming too
Chorus: excuse us boys

This happened to me once:

Me, sitting for dinner with a “couple” of friends
Friend 1’s hoity-toity girlfriend: I need to go to the restroom
Me – struggling to eat the insides of a crab
Friend 1’s girlfriend: Ahem! (Gives me a dirty look)
Me: (as if almost snapping to realization) Oh…ok, lets go.

I have never really been a fan of going “together together” to the loo – a phenomenon universally prevalent amongst those of my gender and much speculated amongst those not of my gender. “So what’s the big deal about going to the loo in pairs?”, asked a very close ‘not-my-gender’ friend of mine… “What’s the big deal about wanting to know it?” I immediately retorted. It’s not like it’s a whole secret life we live in that tiny close space - but its fun to keep the curiosity alive.

What does one do in pairs in the loo? Surely we don’t discuss the shades of pee. Surely we don’t discuss the do’s and don’ts of a Brazilian wax. But it’s just a thing – to go together to the loo – a funny habit that I find myself mostly falling in. I personally believe that these trips facilitate female camaraderie.

In office I end up smiling at random women who I would never know otherwise. In restaurants, I end up discovering at least one likeable thing about my friend’s hoity-toity girlfriend. In college, I know I can burst into tears and not be stared at funnily. In sex and the city, discussions on size, tampons, orgasms come easy there. Maybe that’s why I had a problem with Ally McBeal – it had a common loo – and somewhere I felt the female bonding went missing there. One also discusses their men, her men, our men, men in general in there. Skin issues, sharing perfume, make up tips, bitching about bosses come next in line. But mostly, it’s a space where one’s guard is down– and every woman loves the other – it’s like a modern day Lesbos.

Cleansed and Buzzed

The day began with a resolution – to clean up my room like never before, to discard all the extra papers hiding in envelopes and folders, to slot out all my important documents in labelled files, and to settle my cupboards.

So the excursion began and I was pleasantly surprised to find myself thoroughly enjoying the deed – I colour coded my clothes (from light shades to dark and keeping them in stacks of their family of colours, my cupboard now looks like a palette for asian paints), and then I settled my shelves (placing the books in order of height and thickness) and proceeded to do the dressing table (that found the products categorised in hand lotions, foot creams, body wash’s, moisturisers, perfumes and lip balms)!

What really made me happy was the way I put the paper work in order – “Medical Bills”, “Medical Reports”, “Payslips”, “Appointment letters”, “Travel details”, “Bank Statements”, “Credit Card Documents”, and then the “Important Bills”, “Semi important bills” and “Photocopies of all documents”. I was so pleased with myself and my rarely surfacing Monica Gellar tendencies that I proceeded to treat myself with an extra long bath and then a trip to Mondys with my friends.

Now Mondys is synonymous to Mumbai for me. There would be no weekends without it! For those who don’t know, Mondys is short for Café Mondegar, perched at the beginning of Colaba Causeway with its white, black and green board calling out to me everytime to go there. And its not just the place but the staff there that makes me go there over and over again. Huxley, the manager, gives us tables really fast (and today we got that special “table with a view”), and he makes us feel super special and super safe (there has been a history of a dirty letchy man getting kicked out by the bouncer and 3 table-ful of big-eyed men getting displaced to 3 corners for us)! The beer is chilled and the pizzas are cheesy! But the true USP of Mondys is the jukebox and its “strictly no-trance, no-hip hop” policy – skim through it and find the Doors knocking at your head, Alanis throwing her lyrics at you and the classic rock numbers making you sway happily!

So Mondys it was – with college friends (who else? I don’t meet office people on weekends as a rule) – and we talked about old times and I laughed until I had tears in my big brown eyes and we ordered one pitcher after another and with a couple of more trips to the loo, we talked and laughed some more. So yes, I’d say this was an ideal Saturday – a cleaning spree, buying 2 dvds, wasting ourselves so wonderfully at Mondys and then lounging around in my lovely spic and span room with my laptop and more music.

And yes, why I still sound so cheerful is because there is tomorrow to sleep and shop and sleep some more. Come Monday and I am going to be depressed until next Saturday and write some cribby, pathetic posts till then. Bear with me friends for the weekend shall return and the joy restated.

The Devil Wears Chappals

I am running dangerously short of footwear. (Dilli dosts help me – send me some love from Janpath and some affection from M block). Mumbai has absolutely no variety – all I see now is kolhapuri chappals of which I have had enough and those silly ballerina shoes that I think are ridiculous! I am so desperate for some variety that I have even considered cleaning the dust off my old red tattered converse shoes – and I would mind you, if it weren’t for the heat and humidity of this damn city.

Well, ok, Mumbai isn’t as bad as I make it out to be. the other day I was waiting to cross this busy road since forever and a huge truck just stopped causing the entire traffic to come to a halt and the driver gestured me to cross the road – it sent warm tingly happy feelings inside me and I thought to myself “This happens only in Mumbai”. Also the cab drivers are very nice and sometimes insist on returning 50 paise also. It again makes me go “aww”! So ya, I guess the city does have its moments. And it has Naturals icecream – with my flavour of the month being Anjeer. And Mondy’s ah Mondys – what would I do without thee?

The other day I was listening to Hemant Kumar… “chup hai dharti chup hai chaand sitaare…” while I was sitting at my window, looking at the opposite building (well, what can one say, that’s the view I have)…so anyway, the salty breeze of the sea was at its best and I was nibbling on aam-papad and I realised that this music taste has been passed on to me by my dad – and that’s when I realised that, try as much as we may, we eventually become what our parents are – and then thinking about it more in detail and to my utter horror, I discovered that many of my mothers traits are now happily perching on my head. And then the lovely song started “waqt ne kiya kya haseen sitam…” and my thoughts wandered off to the fact that maybe the Beatles are not it – that maybe I should start getting more into old hindi music in details… the lyrics of this song almost makes me cry each time I listen to it. Sigh.

I got a tiny stuff toy from my cousin today – and I was so delighted – not like I am one of those “ooooh stuff toys are so cute” kind - on the other hand I think that for a gift for an adult, it is the easiest waste of money – but this was indeed special. For one, it was Hobbes from "Calvin and Hobbes" and that was enough to make my cry in joy and secondly, it was something she had won in one of those game parlours where you try fish out a toy from that plastic box – both these facts added to the gift so much that I am, at this moment, sitting right beside it looking at its loving eyes that seem to speak to me!

Hmm yes, I have no string of thoughts – no paragraph is connected to the other – this post is leading to nowhere land. I don’t think I have anything so important or major that I can keep writing about anymore. I think life is becoming increasingly unexciting. I was invited (twice!) to this fancy club called Blue Frog that has recently opened and is the “place to be” (apparently!) – But I am put off by the fact that it has entry charge – yes entry not cover! – and then again, I was invited by men in my office who I am not friends with – so lets not even try treading that path of drunkenness with strange men. And hence, my evenings are very limited to sometimes catching up with college/school friends who work/live nearby or going home and listening to music until the late night episodes of Friends begin. Getting old, are we? Or we could just call it maturity? I like the latter – it sounds less boring. And for some reason I keep trying to find reasons to sound less boring – like trying to spice up a history text book with an imaginary character like Jodha (isn’t that was Rushdie says?I am not sure)

Oh I played Tekkan, a tennis game and a road rage game on playstation today and it was kick ass! And may I humbly say that I kicked ass! I had underestimated it – for all my view about it being just a video game for kids – today I have new-found respect for the damn thing! It is brilliant – the only down side of the entire exercise are the boils I got on my thumbs (apparently I have delicate hands, says he) – and now as I type I have two blobs of water bags on my thumbs. It’s so ugly. And I still want to play! How? How must we solve this problem?

Okay enough of rattling senselessly – back to my major problem – I need footwear – and those who are my friends would know the kind I want – flat chappal type sasta-tikau funky stuff – with big wooden beads or anything red? Colourful would do but I am assuming I should grow out of the whole multicolour thing. And some heels I prithee? Lovely ladies going to gk, please to be helping – beige? Black heels? Size 5? Oh I am desperate. Please to be responding to my plea! Pronto?

(“mera joota hai japaani yeh patloon inglistaani” plays in the background. It’s a sign I say!)

Ta dah!

This page is supposed to reflect me. Yes? So I wanted to give it a new look – I loved the earlier photo up there too – it was so serene, so beautiful – and utterly depressing. So in honour of Nimpipi dedicating a post ONLY to me and only me (yes luv, I am still overwhelmed), I decided that it calls for a makeover.
So in the middle of the night I first opened the earlier photo, got the dimensions and got busy photoshopping. I would like to imagine I am a photoshopaholic – I can spend hours, days, nights just editing photos and doing fun stuff with them – you may ask the one who became my mock-client while I tried my best to please her tallness, and we sat making a collage for her through the night.

Anyhow, more on my weekend. Saturday was spent whiling away. I chatted with 2 taxi-wallas, one from UP and the other from Bihar – both abusing the shit out of Thackeray (after discovering that I am a North Indian too) – “madam taxi chalane mein darr lagta hai”, one said while the other one was more aggressive “kisi ko bhi haq hai bharat ke koi bhi pradesh mein naukri karne ka” followed by more ranting. I nodded vehemently and told them to stay put and said “koi aapka baal bhi banka nahin kar sakta”. Politics is going to the dogs, as much is Mumbai with its new-age molesters and jerks who jack off on trains. A friend commented “Mumbai is turning into Delhi” – I said oh no no no, no one beats up cabbies in Delhi just because they can’t say “kute and ikde” (marathi for where and here)! Dilli Dilli Dilli – when shall I return to thee, I count the days!

I also met a school friend today, who is getting married in 4 days – a classic arranged marriage with her to-be-husband being the first guy she met and said yes to. I wasn’t surprised to see her happy and content – I was almost envious though – because this much would never bring me happiness… I expect too much, want to much, need too much out of a man – so seeing people whose lives are so simple and so simply joyous makes me wonder if being a “thinking” woman is actually an advantage or mostly a tool that will ensure constant dissatisfaction with what one gets versus what one actually expects of life. So I called P, and she almost reprimanded me for even questioning it – yes, my friend probably doesn’t even know what she wants and is happy with what she is getting, but if she is happy, it can’t be that bad, right?
I, on the other hand, feel that I will never be happy and totally content – because life isn’t that simple for me and adjustment is a word I really don’t like. So that’s why seeing my small town friends settle down and happily so makes me ask myself – would I be happier if I were a little under-exposed to the goddamn exciting world with all its multiple possibilities? In any case, what can be done now – thinking is a habit that is impossible to discard – so once the process has begun, lets fight the consequences dear friends, lets think some more – lets think about how to put one to sleep at 3 am in the morning – ah yes, shut photoshop, post this entry, stare proudly at the made-over blog, close lid of laptop, switch off lights, get into bed, stop thought.
Goodnight.

Access All Areas

Okay then. We are going public.
No more basking in my anonymity – for that I have created another blog and writing there is far more cathartic. No more saying “this is a secret blog” – with several friends of mine having the link, I realised it’s hardly a secret anymore. No more “oh god it’s so personal” – I have duly deleted all the whiney crying sappy soppy posts that used to periodically trickle in when this blog began and also realised that I don’t mention anything personal on this anymore. So I don’t see a reason why the critics and the regulars of the blogging community shouldn’t get a chance to comment / lash out / appreciate / criticise and love my blog.

Yes I warn you, it will not be funny. I lack that talent and envy Nimpipi for it. It will not be oh so political and ‘latesht’ – I suck at current affairs apart from the ones that are mine. *grin grin*. It shall not be hugely entertaining and mostly have posts about the purple sky and issues of vanity, the station I almost missed a train at and my lazy tendencies, some Sylvia Plath poem I loved or Madam Bovary’s infamous ovaries. It shall also be peppered with some poetry I churn out once in a while and some adventure I have (like almost getting killed in a taxi and ducking the cheap shots of fluffy-headed men hitting on me at the gym). Oh, once in a while I shall also gloat about the huge poster of Beatles that I just got framed – it is so gorgeous, it almost makes me cry each time I look at it for too long! And very rarely I will tell you about what is up at work and how working in the television industry can totally be the most sado-masochistic thing one can do to oneself. But more often than not, it will be random things that just come to my mind.

I am not very regular with this thing, but once in a while you may visit. And prithee, don’t be too harsh because I love the link it was born with and it would break my heart to change it. Actually, like I’ve said before, its my space, I breathe here, so see if I care. Anyhow, if you haven’t been here before, I welcome you to schizophrenic salad’s public journal.

Fellow Blogger Friends, you may add me to your blogroll,while I shall soon learn to make one too.
New readers?- You may scroll down now.

Beauty is Skin Peep?

I know life is getting better since I have stopped wearing any sort of (subtle or otherwise) make-up to office. There used to be a dependence on touch and glow. And then came a phase when calamine was the layer that would sort of let me get out in the morning. But of late, nothing…yes indeed…nothing and I have been able to get out without thinking that I may have to stand in the daylight and speak to someone long enough for them to analyse all my skin flaws… not like they’d care but anyway.

So much of what we are is derived out of the way we look. If my skin is bad (which has been the case since I landed in Mumbai and its been a long way downhill ever since), then I feel totally under-confident and very depressed. It’s terrible that I have to feel that way just based on the way I look. And it’s not just me, other women have these issues do.
I wonder if men have these problems…do they bother about the marks that zits leave and the tiny bumps they leave behind like a remembrance of sort. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t even care. Or maybe it’s because all the men I know have been bestowed by naturally clear skin.

I was on facebook the other day, whiling away time…what else does one do on facebook anyway? …so I was looking through albums of some friends and I saw some women with terribly bad skin…and I heaved a sigh of relief sending a little thank you to god saying that I am not alone. Well, in retrospect, that was a terrible reaction to have. I should have probably felt bad for them…instead I felt good for myself. Sigh. What tangled webs we weave… of self-obsession and insensitivity, of vanity and such insanity.

Anyway, so my skin has marked considerable amounts of improvement. Yes I may not be glowing and all that but I am hopeful… if I can discard any form of make up then there is hope for me yet. But then again it is that time of the year again – the gorgeous winters - which seems to have passed by in a week – and the heat shall begin and the sweating and the humidity and the skin getting all confused all over again.

I really think my skin has a life of its own. Like it thinks for itself. And it is mostly confused. Because I am from a hill station and because I have always lived in dry places, being in a city where every 5 minutes I feel like my t-zone is feeling oily and moist, I can only assume that my skin gets confused…on how to behave and how to look…so in that confusion it ends up with worry bumps, which we no-so-fondly call pimples. But it’s been quite some time, I am hoping like I am adjusting to this place my skin will too – and one day it will shine with health and joy like it used to… till then I will just go back to my dermatologist on peddar road and give him a thank you message. I can get out sans makeup. Yay…. I can let my real skin peep into the world. It’s a day to celebrate my friends!


“Mary had clear skin
The lambs loved her dimple
Aloe-vera and antibiotics
Pop goes the pimple.”

Snacking on the Salad

I think my multiple personalities are acting as definite roadblocks in my writing excursions. Not that I used to write daily, not that I am a regular blogger, not that I even have a regular lot who reads my somewhat anonymous blog, but I do keep putting in – something or the other – like N mentioned last night, about Lizzy the lizard, the tampon joy and my effort to gym – I know its nothing monumentally or even remotely important…but its my life – and I am assuming (very gladly) that some close ones like reading about it once in a while.

Of late, I feel tired and lazy – more the latter actually – and because I write from 3 sides of me – the socially correct and politically correct me namely this blog, the surreal, streams of consciousness poetic me which would be the one I share with my best friend, and the open, loud, brash, shameless me, which is the third top-secret one – hence even when I sometimes feel a pang of desire to sit and scribble, figuring out which one is the role I want to put on now is such a mental task that the lazy side of me finally triumphs and I end up not writing at all.

However, another argument could be that, I used to write a lot when I was depressed, morose, disillusioned blah blah. I think it was all the extra time I had on my hands – it was like this – no boyfriend, no friends, no life = tons of spare time = lots of scribbling and regularly updating my blog. That’s why the time I was alone and depressed last year was the phase when this salad bowl experienced the maximum seasoning and garnishing. Now, it stands bland and rotten – with no new flavours and no new ingredients. And that, my dear friends, is totally pathetic.

Yes, so I am the tragic queen amongst my friends and I love writing about misery. In fact, I find it terribly difficult and painful to write anything funny. Don’t think though that I haven’t tried, but with repeated attempts that led to disappointing failures, I resigned to writing serious stuff and at times, just frivolous stuff that constitutes for all the light reading on my blog. And because of late there has been nothing serious or even mildly exciting in my life, I haven’t bothered to put it down anywhere.

Let me think about what I could update someone on my life and its many monotonous moments – the job is going on fine, I was supposed to go for a trip to Italy from office which has been cancelled and in effect broken my heart – all because I haven’t finished a year in the damn organisation – hence, my fellow friends and I, who they fondly label as MTs, short for “management trainees”, shall stay and rot in the office while the others gallivant around Italy and ogle at the delicious men there. Though I think that it’s a terrible waste that I am not going – what will the others do – watch some places and “wow” “wow” everything I sight – while I, a lover of classical literature and of art and architecture would have enjoyed the museums, and the colloseum and the gondolas and the Roman history goddammit. Sigh. But what must happen must happen. And so I must sit at office and sulk so those many days (and then maybe in my tragic horrors, end up posting stuff more often). So that was that about the update at work.

I have been negligent on the gym part and I feel that it was of no use. I feel like I wasted money and most weeks, when the score is 2 out of 7, I sit in the pool of guilt and wish I’d bought some clothes and a perfume instead. Or even a teeny-tiny diamond ring. Nahiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnn!!!!!

The slip disc is in control. I haven’t been relegated to bed rest till now. I seem to be doing okay. The boy in question is also fine. We all have our issues. We all sail through them. I suppose it’s not something one would discuss in this blog…apart from the fact that it may turn out to be mind numbingly boring for you, I’d rather leave all the intricate details to the censored blog I maintain and that I am quite in love with.

Mumbai is getting chilly in the evenings. It gives me great pleasure to be able to wear my sweatshirts and sleep under a blanket. But the sleeveless stuff hasn’t gone at the back of my wardrobe so that doesn’t say too much about what a winter we have here. But atleast, something is better than nothing.

Okay I think I have lost my flow again. I have become so floopy and indifferent and lazy. I don’t want to write because I feel it’s too much mental effort to write. But with people poking me and reminding me to keep putting something down time and time again, I am sure the salad bowl won’t die.

So till we meet again (hopefully not in the tragic mode), keep coming back to snack!

xoxo

Incompletion

Suddenly I don’t like Mumbai. Everything that was getting eventually endearing about this place seems to have slowly faded. Life at the local train stations don’t interest me anymore. There is no more a wide-eyed wonder about the expanse of the sea. No more do I venture out to Colaba to shop on my own. Streets remind me of my friends who came and went – the places I haunted with them – Bottles of beer at Mondy’s, burnt fish at Martins, huge amounts of prawn fry at Leopolds, a walk staring at the large mansions at Bandstand, a stroll along Marine Drive – Mumbai has lost its charm – no more do I wish to stay here.

Ips went away – a stable rock solid support was gone. Jai flew off – my school mate was gone. Pix left – my best friend and most comforting factor disappeared. Ktik followed – confidential talks and random dinners flew out of the window. Niv was next in line – my favourite critic and darling friend also went. I feel so voided of late.

I cross Dadar and remember the catering college and Hard Rock. I go to the stations and imagine the tall banana-chappaled woman making her way through the crowd. I visit the book shop at Causeway and remember going there to find research books for Ips’ Phd. I cross Chembur and the days I spent with Adi comes back to me. I see a Subway and remember the two mad sub-lovers.

Very important parts of my life have left. Mumbai was a lot of what it was because of them. Each one brought me joy in a very special way. Suddenly I feel very very lonely. I don’t know if I want to stay here anymore. Suddenly there is nothing much to look forward to. And I am a “social butterfly”, aren’t I? Then how come I find it terribly difficult to make new friends?

I have a comfort zone. Part of that zone came to Mumbai, made it beautiful and left. Suddenly this city is as hollow as it once was. And I am as incomplete.

Caricature Workout

Someone called me a pretty cartoon. That is mostly because, if you have seen me, I have a big head compared to the rest of my body. So in effect, if one looks at me carefully I look pretty much like a caricature – big head, big eyes, big mouth – well, let’s say I am a caricature artist’s ideal subject. And all this started when I announced that I am going to lose weight and then I was told that in that case my body would become thinner and I would look more comical than I do now. Hmm. And so much for thinking that I was sexy and all that crap. Ah well. Sigh.

So anyway, I have decided to join a gym – for which I had gone shopping today. All this is done with the sole intention of motivating me enough to lose weight – you know how it goes…if I spend so much money on getting my goodies together for gym-ing, I will be guilt ridden enough to wake up in the morning and run to the gym – paisa vasool you see – and considering how broke I am right now, spending oodles of cash on the membership and the accessories is a big thing for me. And tomorrow I am going to buy myself a set of three ankle length socks and then draw out a cheque of almost one third of my salary towards the bi-annual gym fee. I have instructed my parents to courier me my running shoes all the way from North India for this very noble and healthy cause of mine. This is quite an event in my life.

You see, this is bigger than you think it is. I am essentially an owl by nature. I love keeping up till ungodly hours of the night and hearing the crickets sing, I read a few chapters out of some book or write some unstructured poetry, I watch an obscure film or I catch up with other nocturnal friends on the phone, I love the silence of the night and I love the sound of my voice in the silence – for me night time is my time – so consequently, I find it terribly difficult to crawl out of bed in the morning…grudgingly I open my eyelids to the morning light at 9 am and run out of the house with a sandwich in my hand at 10…such is my habit, such is my routine. So for me to take an initiative to even think about waking up at 7 for gym every morning is very very very big!

But I am determined. And I have gone and asked them how much will it cost, I have taken the pain and effort to walk into that fitness space (in which me and my flabby self feels totally out of place) and ask for the fitness instructor (who by the way is totally hot and totally indifferent)….I have figured out which membership plan I want, I have decided what time slot will suit me and will make me (hopefully) a healthier and thinner person. I seem to be so obsessed with the idea of losing weight. Part of me blames the goddamn tiny anorexic-designed dresses that are sold at Peddar road that come in from Bangkok, part of me blames the very looks oriented society we live in, part of me blames the fact that I am not fighting the system but falling into it and yet part of me blames the indifference in which I am letting myself bloat up.

Am I fat? Am I thin? Am I fit? More importantly, am I happy? And if losing a couple of kgs would make me happier then I suppose this is a good new year’s gift to give oneself. All I am hoping is that there is weight loss all over and that I don’t end up looking like a bigger caricature – or if a caricature must I be, then let me atleast be a pretty caricature.

With this hopeful note, I pen down my new years fitness resolution and validate my coupon to happiness.

*huff puff*

Loud and Clear

I wonder who discovered this wonderful thing that I have just discovered. And I don’t know why I didn’t discover it earlier. To think of it, it’s been ten years since it all began – how convenient would it have been if I had been adventurous enough to use it then. It would have been ten years of hardly knowing that every month the cycle with repeat itself – the pain, the mood swings, the lethargy, and the lack of appetite – most of it would diminish and I would have been a happier and a less bothered woman – as I am now.

I remember seeing it first when I was 14. It looked like a little bullet – and we were so fascinated – I mean why wouldn’t we be- after being used to seeing white rectangular lumps, these tiny things the size of half my index finger seemed fascinating – how could that tiny thing soak up so much, it was totally incomprehensible to us. So my other 14 year old friends and I unwrapped one – with wide eyed wonder… as if a mystery was getting solved - and put it in a mug of water and ‘PLOP’ it swelled up in an instant and became more that double its size. I think that that sight was what scared me out of my wits…just imaging inserting it was unthinkable then – and then the fact that it would double up in size was downright scary.

Then one day I grew up. I became 24 and that sight that beheld my gaze and horror ten years ago was suddenly very blurry and the misery of handling the trouble every month with my hectic work schedule very clear. So I went for it yet again, and managed to use it…and now I am relieved, I am happy, and I have almost forgotten the worry that would make me squirm in the middle of the night.

It’s probably the only good thing that man discovered that was a gift to us women. It all started with something to plug in wounds of the French soldiers. I agree there was no intention to make it what it is today – but that’s how the tampon came into being and made comfortable my monthly being.
Hail OB!! Hail the Tampon!! Loud and clear!!! I need to ‘whisper’ no more.

On Popular Demand

I haven’t been writing anything good. Actually I haven’t been writing at all of late. As many of you know, my affections have been diverted to another link that I keep hidden from the world. I wanted to experiment with a space where I wouldn’t have to think twice about what I write – and the experiment proved to be quite fruitful – so that’s why the schizophrenic salad hasn’t seen the face of a new post in ages.

But today my wardrobe-critiquing-mojito-sipping friend asked to post something “on popular demand” so I embarked on this mission to have at least a post (even if it’s a lame one) to make an appearance on my blog today.
I think I have stopped writing because mostly I have nothing to write about – nothing really important so to say – no heart aches, no heart breaks, no pain, no misery, no joy, no rains, no trains. I fear I am going through a writers block of the worst kind. Or worse still, I fear that my brain is soon depleting and I have no opinions to throw around anymore.

Yes, I feel out of touch with the world – sometimes I feel myself losing perspective – sometimes I feel mentally lethargic, so much so that even thinking is an effort. My world is cocooned to my work place, my parents giving me continuous flak about the marriage issue, my effort to sleep on time and some television thrown in here and there (ofcourse with the never ending sorrow about my skin and my endless desperate efforts to salvage it).

Life had more meaning when I had more friends. What a dangerous thing to say. I feel sometimes that my identity is a result of all identities around me – who I am is determined by my friends, my boyfriend, my colleagues, my designation at work, my family – in all cases, it is in respect to someone or the other. I suddenly feel terribly afraid…what if that’s it…what if that’s all that my identity will ever be? – determined by people around me – and what am I without those people – I suddenly don’t know.

I feel so drained. Didn’t I tell you? I feel tired to even think anymore. Because silly random questions like these pop up and then I want to just sleep. Take for example today – because I had a huge fight with my parents and my mother chose to call and keep yapping about it, I conveniently refused to wake up and face the day – I sent some lame ass excuse to office and woke up at 11 and sauntered my way into office at 12:30 – rushed around, diligently finished work and made an exit at 7 pm. After which I had sumptuous dinner and headed home in the “proper” time (lest my folks lose it again) and now I am sitting at my laptop typing this – while getting ready to sleep again.

Sleep is the best remedy. I could sleep over most problems. Except when I didn’t have a job – that time even sleep would evade me…eyes snapped open at 6 am sharp – oh those were some torturous days. I don’t even want to think about them right now. Thinking is so tiring. And the week has just began.

And I didn’t even pay enough justice to the fact that this was a post after a very very long time…I just rambled on thoughtlessly – and didn’t have one thread of connection or any structure whatsoever. But then again, this is my blog and writing nonsense is my own business.

I promise to try harder next time. I promise to live upto popular demand. Right now I must sleep my miseries away. Right now I must watch some television and drop semi dead in slumber.

Goodnight.

Saturated

It’s a glorious Saturday. I am terribly distracted by the gorgeous music collection I own… it was Cranberries in the morning while I cleaned up and rearranged my room, then it was followed by some obscure numbers that I vaguely do recognise and associate with, even know scraps of lyrics of some but can’t ever place them, then came a flush of RHCP and how its snazzy bollywood numbers! Saturdays are nice when they are so wasted and lazy. On other days I am gallivanting around town for work or pleasure (wink wink!)…hence, today I decided to keep myself within the cream walls of my glorious little L-shaped room and watch a film or two…which for the record wasn’t such a great experience coz I watched Four Weddings and a Funeral and positively hated it – Yes yes the cute boy looks n all sort of redeemed the film – but apart from that…it didn’t catch my attention even one bit. I fail to understand now how come it’s such a "ooooh-u-gotta-watch-it" film. There was nothing exceptional at all. Anyhow, that being over, I treated myself to a delightfully hilarious video of the 4 penguins of Madagascar, at the end of which, even the movie time didn’t seem such a waste.

Apart from all this, I panicked when I saw myself in the mirror and realised that Mumbai will never suit my skin and hence I must be doomed and cursed to eternal ugliness – yet, like all hopeful ladies, I undertook the brave job of mixing some natural honey lemon type things and apply it indulgently on my skin – hoping some semi-miracle comes out of it. I am still caked with it – I am still hopeful.

Also had a talk with my mother, father and brother. That made me happy. Especially after mom wasn’t bickering about my marriage issue so much and especially after I bitched about the ugly photograph of the ugly boy that was proposed to be a prospective groom. Yuck. The good part however in this whole exercise was that my mother happily agreed with me. May god keep making more of such easily reject-able men. Amen.


Then my cell phone bill arrived and literally game me a heart attack – but because it was a detailed itemised bill, I took great pleasure in pouring over it and adding how much I spent on whom on an average in a month. I was shocked how scattered my affections and conversations were – I seem to be part of a long and winding friend chain!

Time spent on the bathroom was beautiful. The thought of scrubbing my feet clean for hours makes my eyes go all wide eyed and sparkly…so such cleanliness exercises were undertaken very successfully.

And now I am alone. Family is out for the weekend to Lonavla. The house is to myself and myself alone – to walk around in negligible clothes and listen to music as loud as I desire. It is indeed a happy Saturday. So lazy. So happy. So indulgent. And so perfect. I am going to watch another film now, and then head for the vegetable store to look for some Aloe Vera for my dying skin – it is indeed a humble cause so I must leave now. It’s a happy Saturday…I am saturated with joy!

Admit All

Hundreds of people with carelessly folded jeans and dirt splattered feet scramble around and scuttle their way to their respective platforms. Just outside Andheri station you see umbrellas grazing against each other and move in a mad hurry – red, yellow, fuchsia, Bollywood prints with Rekha peeking in her classic Umrao-Jaan pose, distasteful leopard print, boring stripes, exciting dots and if you happen to go in the usual office hour then mostly black. A whiff of “cutting-chai” holds your attention albeit for a few seconds before you glance at the train time-table blinking green in a distance and decide to rush to the fastest one you can jump onto – and it takes you so easily to almost the other end of the city.

For a small town girl like me who apart from my peacefully perched idyllic home in Simla, have only been a fan of the wide smooth Delhi roads, found the very idea of a local train incomprehensible. I could not understand why one would need trains to travel in one city. Was Mumbai really that big? Or the traffic really that bad? After starting work here I realized, the reasons are both and more.

Local Stations, apart from making sure you reach work on time and being the cheapest mode of transport available, ends up giving you a whole new perspective if you are perceptive enough. It’s this heady mix of class, culture, vada-pavs & burgers to the very soulful blind singer who comes in your coach & the fashion designer who struts in with her Louis Vuitton bag. Never before have I seen people so different from each other, share a space so comfortably and actually though occasionally manage a conversation too.

From “Chinchpokli” that still fascinates me with its name to “Bandra” where I love to hop off to head for some shopping – the stations of Mumbai have a flavour to it that I have not seen anywhere else. Two in every three people will guide you if you are lost, one in every three faces will have a warm smile, chances are your wallet will never be stolen from your bag and even if you do manage to drop it, your credit cards & license will be duly returned somehow, by some strange stroke of mumbaiyaa luck.

It is a place where you would be able to survive – whether you are young or old – eager to open up or clamped in a shell – there is a warmth in the musty salty air that melts you down – there is a life to the sea that you gaze at and a music to the rain that mostly bothers you. And there is always that station that gives you the utter independence to go anywhere you feel like going.
The city may be moody - it rains, it pours, it shines, it whines – but the local trains must go on.

Its Mumbai: Admit All.

In Mourning

Lizzy lost his tail. He is uglier than before. Something I didn't think was even possible.
Lizzy had become an essential part of my cluttered room.
Now its Lizzy without a tail. I saw him scuttering across the room to hide himself under the bed - this was the same lizard who would flaunt its meaningless existence by crawling across my walls as if he owned it.
Poor Lizzy must be so ashamed. And traumatized.
This blog will maintain prosaic silence for a short while to mourn Lizzy's tail.
While I will silently pray that I don't step onto the now-detached rear end of Lizzy.
Amen.

p.s: Does a lizards have a soul? If Lizzy dies will his spirit haunt my room? Will Lizzy die of humiliation? Does a lizard think?
Oh no, we are back to that same question. Its a vicious cycle.
Err, also... do those tails grow back?

Living with Lizzy

Does a lizard think? I have an ugly little lizard that looks like a miniature dinosaur, if not uglier, living in my room – at night it likes to roam around the floor – I am now petrified of walking around without my slippers lest I step onto it - not because I don’t want to kill it but because the thought of a lizard coming in contact with any part of my body – especially my pedicured feet, makes me squirm and send that uneasy feeling down my neck - you know the kind when you feel water trickle down your spine! Eeeeeeks!!

So I have been watching this lizard just explore the walls of my room and sometimes the ceiling too – and I wonder what that damned creature must be thinking. I call it Lizzy now. I might as well have a name for something that has been sharing my room with me for the past one month. I’ve tried chasing it away – it just comes back… and because its so tiny, creepy and slimy, it just comes back from anywhere goddammit!

What must go on in the mind of Lizzy? Whether he likes the cream shade of paint of my walls? Or which house guest of mine should he petrify next by its visual presence? Or whether the switchboard is warm enough for it to go sit on it and warm its hideous arse on a cold rainy evening?

What does Lizzy eat? Fly poop? Fly kids? Yucky Lizzy has no taste.
Where does Lizzy sleep? Below my bed? Over my head? Lizzy go away, make haste!
How does Lizzy screw? Does he stay on top? Lizard sex seems so boring, so chaste.
Why does Lizzy live? Why inhabit my room? And make it look like such a waste!


Dirty dirty Lizzy! He is a dirty ol’ lizard. He is tiny with a curious little head that stays raised for some odd reason – I haven’t been near it enough to analyse the shade and texture of his unsightly skin – I’m sure it must have little beady eyes – snoopy poopy seedy beady eyes of a villain!

Egg shells don’t drive him away. I am going to try peacock feathers next. He doesn’t do any harm so to say, its just that his mere presence is disturbing and is driving me up the wall (up the wall….haha!). But seriously, any lizard who manages to make me write about it AND christen it – must be destroyed!!! But how? I prithee tell me…how? Must I commit bloody murder? But I can't… and not because I don’t want to…but because the thought of being close enough to kill it is killing me!

What should I do of dirty Lizzy? Lizzy is a plague that has taken over my walls. Lizzy is a creature who is a descendant of the evil dinosaurs. Lizzy is a laid back lizard that roves around my room. Lizzy is a curse to make me think about what a lizard must think? Or does a Lizard think? I don’t know. Go ahead, think about it. And tell me if you can think of anything.

P.S: Lizzy the Lizard is up for adoption. Roomie anyone?

Coffee-Soda on the Rocks

So I was trying to take a power ‘noon’ nap, when these memories from the past just flashed in my head. I think it all began with my craving for something to drink – I didn’t know what – so I was weighing my options in my head, wondering what is available in the refrigerator and will that be better than freshly brewed aromatic tea? – And then Red Bricks came to my mind.

Red Bricks was our little space in this inconspicuous corner of Kailash Colony in Delhi – a space that made sure that each one of us there has our own little private space to hold, to keep and to return to almost every evening. Large couches and warm wooden tables along with smoking and non-smoking zones, good music and happy hours discounts were all that we young-perpetually-broke college-goers could ask for. The red bricked walls were covered with framed posters of a thousand retro musicians. There was a corner to put up your own personal post-its and there were 4 shelves full of books (including the very curiosity inducing manuals of the kamasutra and monthly magazines like Rave). The menu was fantastic – or at least I felt that way – it had an assortment of coffees and teas (reason enough for me to fall in love with any café), and then had its famous oregano-cheese grilled sandwich – and a 20% discount to everyone from my college – it was our little haven, a respite from the fancy-shmancy baristas and mochas of the world, and a place where no one would kick you out even if you just ordered a coffee, picked up the newspaper and sat playing chess with a friend for hours.

It was my land of escape – when I needed my space – and hell, do I need my space all the time or what – when I had to get out of the kich-pich of the PG I lived in, or the zingbang of college activities or when I simply needed some time to sort out my own little insignificant personal problems that seemed so monumental back then. It was a place you would meet the boys – it was a place where little Friday night concerts would happen and the smog would take over the whole population flocked there for utter indulgence – it was a place where everyone had kissed at least once - it was the only place you wanted to be when an India-Pakistan match happened - it was a place that somehow gave you a sense of ownership and pride.

I have spent entire Saturdays there – downed 4 mugs of coffee and 2 plates of fries along with one good book and maybe a stray game of chess with a boy whose name I never asked. I have had this unique drink there that I have never seen anywhere else till date – this coffee soda thing with lots of ice– strong coffee with soda and the frothy thing that accumulated on top, there would be these 3 coffee beans joined at the hip – it was so strange and it was so fuzzy-fizzy and it was so nice. I miss that soda coffee thing. I miss just having an unassuming little inexpensive warm den to spend time in – I miss Red Bricks and my life back then. It was great while it lasted.

Red Bricks was closed down because of some legal problems when I was in my final year of college. We all mourned it heavily. We all missed it crazily. Something was just taken away form our lives. The coffee-soda drink was snatched away from mine. And never again have I had the opportunity to see so many cute guys just sitting lazily waiting to invite you for a game of ludo. We tried to find a substitute. We found something very remotely similar in Village Café – but it wasn’t walking distance from where I lived and I couldn’t sit there till 11 at night – and it was expensive and eventually became shady.
And then college ended, we all moved to new places, new campuses - NCC became my new friend for chai, Zaika was the roadside favourite for cold coffee – but Red Bricks remained irreplaceable – and the soda-coffee inimitable.
Some things in life…well, never have to change.

Haiku and I

Atwood talks about the past. When women existed within four walls. Yet without the limitations of imagination. It goes like this:
“Life was more joyful and innocent then, and at the same time permeated with guilt and terror, or at least the occasions for them, on the most daily level.
It was like the Japanese haiku: a limited form, rigid in its perimeters, within which an astonishing freedom was possible.”

I am still in awe of this analogy she has built – of the fact that it has given me a whole new perspective on…Freedom? Life? Haiku? Word play? Me?
I happen to develop a liking to the place I’ve just started work at. Many say it is limiting – without challenges, without creativity – but I look around and in hidden crevices (and in a lot of channel goodies), find a sea of opportunities. I think for me it is also a lot about respect. I need to have a stand in the place I work at. This, now, here – I like it. Surrounded by intimidating feminists, hearing talks about women’s issues, being amongst multitudes of boobs – I feel like one of them – somewhere in some corner of me, I feel like I belong.
Who can kill your creativity? Work? Job? This so called 9-6 routine? Some of the most interesting people I know work at banks, mnc’s, ngos – so does that mean they cannot be funny? They cannot read poetry? They cannot delve into literature? They cannot paint a picture or tell a story?
It’s a great thing if you love your work. I strive for that. Right now I am at the “liking” stage and not the “loving and dying for it” level. But I am striving to earn to be where I want to be – to be able to study without bothering about where my next meal is coming from – that’s something that keeps me going.
And then again – the books I carry on train, the doodles I make in my diary and the way I spend my weekends is life enough for me. I am relatively satisfied. I am not bursting and overflowing with love for work. But I just about love life right now. And that, for me, is a great start. I am hopeful. I am optimistic. I am happy. I am like haiku.

Block Talk

“Your internet connection is experiencing problems or your network administrator has blocked Gmail chat.”

What it this I say? I am at home. With slight fever and a horrible headache. Took an off from work. And popped in a crocin. Slept for a while longer. And woke up pretty much okay. But by then it was an off from work so why bother? I might as well stay home. So I log onto gmail and want to chat with some friends. And I get this silly message out of the blue and in the middle of a conversation where I was cribbing and simultaneously gloating about being ill and hence being at home. I call up R to ask “who the hell is this network administrator and what does he think of himself?”, he gives me a nonchalant answer “log off and log on again”… as if I hadn’t done that like a million times before I called him for help – am I a total net retard?...uh NO! Then he tells me, it is guy who came to fix up the net connection at home – aha… I thought as much, but suddenly why would my gtalk be banned? Have I been doing some uncensored wordy exchanges through it… I don’t think so! This is infuriating!

Oh and this rambling reminds me – who the hell is this M anyway? My blog isn’t out for public scrutiny. It’s my space where I can and will say anything – nonsense or not – and then yesterday I had this comment on this earlier post – and I was like…eh who is this? Only my friends have this link and I mostly know their nicknames. So this uninvited intrusion irked me a bit. But I published the comment anyway – maybe he/she returns – this M – to leave some smart ass comment yet again…so if one can bother to comment, I am okay with publishing it. Phhhhbbbt !!!!!!

I went yesterday to see a flat where I may want to move in. It is in a beautiful society – in the heart of Bandra on Carter Road – the sea front is walking distance away, and so is Crepe station and Tangy Tomato. And decently priced even. Just that the deposit is going to burn a hole into my parent’s pockets. But there is nothing called perfection – in that wonderful almost furnished house, lives a girl who has a huge Boxer! I am petrified of stray dogs, I avoid all kinds of poodles and apsos and this is a huge terrifying looking brown and black boxer, for god’s sake! What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

Hot friend J sent me a mail. Asking why I haven’t met him in so long and why are things so weird. I hate such topics – where there is so much talking and so many explanations. What do I tell him – ah yes, I don’t want to meet you right now and hang out with you because I, indeed, do not want to go out with you, so I am keeping you, my dear hot friend, at bay. What is annoying is that he stays at Bandra – so close to office and so convenient for hanging out – but I shall not and will not cross the line of control! *smug smile*

I had salaami & black olive sandwich for breakfast, with sprouts followed by cold coffee. I feel full, pampered and ready to sleep again.
So how do I solve this gtalk problem? How do I get in touch with the world that is out there again?
I am hoping switching off the computer/modem and restarting everything in an hour should miraculously do the trick. So I am going to try that before I have to call Mister Network fuckin’ Administrator. I am going back to sleep sweet sleep. Any comments on that, M? Indulge yourself.

*Disabling blogger.com also now?*
Let’s kill the network administrator.
Yawn!

Of Bean Bags and Boredom !!

I am bored. Therefore I shall scribble.

What’s there to a place? I wonder.
There was Delhi and my life there. It was so perfect? Why was it so perfect?... because I chose it to be perfect in my head. There were days of despair, or illness, of fights and tears. And there were days of friendship, adventure, smiles and laughter. And yet, in its complete self – it was perfect.
I think we choose our perfection. For me Delhi was it. It was the only place I thought happiness would come to me from. But now I realise, happiness doesn’t come to you. You, take your lazy arse, and go to it.
It is what you make of a place that the place makes of you. It is the vibes you give a city that get flung back to you. No? Yes? Something?
Mumbai is okay… I am getting used to the rains, I am okay with the traffic, I like the breezy nights and the lazy weekends. I like myself. And I like the way I can adapt.

I have learnt the following things about Mumbai:

- To get love you have to give some first.
- Rains is a pain in the ass. Grin and bear with it. Power of toleration, I say!
- Taxi and auto wallas are most fun to chat with
- You must know how to jump onto a moving train
- Therobroma is brownie haven.
- Sion and “sheev” are names of the same place – but I still cant figure out why is it spelled so differently in english and hindi!
- Station is a place you should write award winning books at.
- “Kute” means where and not “kutte”
- The auto meters read one rupee more than you must pay them
- Noone gives a rat’s shit as to what you wear – and this I loouwe!

Apart from that, and apart from polishing my social skills, there is a home – there are warm children who love me – and it is such a warmth inducing feeling (oh me and my maternal instincts). There is utter boredom on days and utter business on other days. There is, somehow, never a time when I don’t have people to meet or something to do…like I don’t know…music to listen to, write a mail, read on the train,cook something new, straighten my almirah, stare at the sea etcetera etcetera!

And then there are the really bright moments of the day. For example when an announcement is made that 2 huge beanbags shall be arriving home… one deep red and one black. The thought of the deep red fills me with so much lazy joy! I love beanbags – all kind, all colour… well, there is just one kind actually…but yes, all sizes, all prices, everywhere and anywhere – be it the common room at LSR or my friend’s house, be it at Village Café or the furniture shop around the corner.
The first thing I want to buy when I have my own place is a bean bag. A huge read bean bag. It will be like this big blob of colour adding life to my room and symbolising my love for just being a couch potato and doing nothing. It is comforting just looking at a beanbag. I have always been so much in love with them. So much so that in the computer game, the Sims house party (you know where design your house, your lane, your garden and all your furnishing – oh even your lover, just for the record!), ya so in that game even, I remember having these crazy fluorescent green and blue beanbags all around my virtual house! Beanbags give me such joy. Much as most things these days do. And sometimes when everything is giving me too much joy, I crib just a little bit to feel “normal”!

I’m in office. And as you can gather from my endless ramble, I am bored. Oh so bored. And sitting in anticipation of seeing the beanbags arrive at home. Pix is on her way. We are going shopping. *jumps in the air, clicks her feet, CRASH*
We shall raid the streets of Bandra. We shall share this experience called “Mumbai”. And after the exhilarating fun of it all, we shall crib just a teeny-weeny bit to get our feet back onto the ground.

What’s there to a place? I wonder again. People make places. And right now my people seem to be here. This is my city now. I have partly arrived!